The noose around Fortress Maximus' neck tightens. Will the Decepticon 2nd fleet led by mighty Scorponok finally subjugate their old nemesis? And if they do, what will be the fate of the Autobot resistance?

With supreme effort, Wildfly cloaked his delight at the news of a fresh ration. The desire to smile, cackle, point a digit at Spree, and insult him nearly overwhelmed the Monstercon, but he quashed it, justified as he believed it might have been. A neutral expression painted his face-plate.

Yes, that's right, why did you do that? But it's no big deal. I'll gladly take your ration, you afthole. Wildfly's optics darted to Spree before returning to Whirl. Many thanks for the donation, buddy. Looks like I owe you one. A ghost of a smirk swept across his lip components. Not.

He didn't care about ratting out Spree, thus shattering whatever laughable code the inmates functioned by. Wildfly came first, second, third, and fourth. Everybody else, with the exception of his fellow Monstercons, had to settle for a distant sixth.

He did, however, care about cleaning up a mess he most certainly did not create. But he didn't want to push his luck. With Spree bringing him a new ration—his ration—it would be wise to play along and remain on his best behaviour.

Still at the door, Wildfly stayed cool. “The perfect cleaning device, eh? Even without it, boss, I'll make sure this floor is spick-and-span, clean as a whistle."

There was a great chance that Whirl didn't appear convinced of his sincerity. Wildfly was fine with that; he could accept that. He'd never exactly been a model prisoner, and he possessed no aspirations to become one. But as long as he could pull this one off, then he could keep out of trouble for a while.

Or at least until Spree provoked him again. Or at least until the next activity period, where an impulse turned into a joke and that joke landed him in hot liquid.

Wildfly waited for Spree to return. He offered Whirl a brief smile.

That freaking peeper again. It was as though it had latched on to him. He resisted the urge to comment on it, lest he lose that ration and spend some quality time in solitary confinement.

With a low grumbled “yes sir” Spree turned on his heel and made his way out of the cell block in order to fetch his ration. The ration he was supposed to partake in right after his shift. The guard spent the better part of his trek cursing Whirl to the Pit.

Meanwhile the copter-bot watched Wildfly closely as he responded to Whirl’s suggestion of a cleaning device that would be most efficient in cleaning up the spilled energon. Whirl offered him a simple nod and added, “I’m sure you will. But this little piece of equipment will make it all the more easy for you." The sound of heavy foot falls echoed through the block as Spree finally returned with his energon cube in hand.

Whirl pushed away from the door and looked down at his newly arrived subordinate. “Ahh. It’s about time. Hand it over." The former Wrecker snatched up the fuel clamping it tightly in his clawed hand, his lone amber optic boring deep into Spree’s frame. In response the guard averted his eyes focusing instead on a spot on the opposite wall.

“Now. You…" He waved the cube in front of the small window making absolutely sure Wildfly could see it. "…you’ll clean up the energon on your side of the door and once you’re done I’ll send in this ration." Whirl watched Wildfly before he finally broke down exactly what he wanted the Monstercon to do. “Here’s what you’re gonna do to get that spilled slop up." The Senior Guard paused for a moment just to be sure he had the ‘Con’s complete attention, “You’re gonna get down on your hands and knees, lower your head down really, really low… see, that way you’ll be in the perfect position to lap it up. Every last drop of it." A booming laugh sounded from behind Whirl.

The copter-bot shot the other mech a warning glare causing Spree to stifle his overjoyous laughter. “Now, where was I? Ahh, yes you were just about to clean up that mess. Oh and…" Whirl lifted cube once more and waved in the window. "…you hesitate; you make any kind of sound, other than that of your licking up that mess, or you send me so much as a smirk… I’ll be the one guzzling this ration." He took a quick look over his shoulder at the now surprised and angry Spree. With his optics glued to his subordinate Whirl removed a straw from a storage compartment, inserted it into the cube and took a long swig. “I suggest you get to work. I’m mighty thirsty."

Southern Wing – Level 4 – Clock C

*Ahem* The sound made Kronus finally lift his head and look at the small figure standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Kronus, but I’m gonna have to put this back on." The guard lifted the face restraint so the Decepticon could see it. The thief let out a defeated sigh before lowering his head back down, his chin nearly coming to rest against his chest. The depressed sound from the prisoner brought a frown to Streamlight’s face. “One more breem. Just one more." Kronus’ request was low, nearly a whisper.

Streamlight’s shoulders slumped slightly before he stepped through the threshold and came to a stop directly in front of the restrained mech. “I can’t. You know that. As it is I’m not supposed to remove the face restraint." The young guard lifted said device up slightly to emphasize his explanation. Kronus responded by lifting his head and sending his watcher a small nod of understanding and defeat. “Yeah, I know, kid."

The flier stepped back out of the cell and waited for a moment letting Kronus get into position so that the rest of his restraints could be implemented. Once he was sure it was safe Streamlight headed back into the cell where he stepped up to the ‘Con and began reapplying the face restraint. He was on the second lock when the thief spoke lowly. “Do you still think you’re being punished? You weren’t so sure before when I asked. I mean, I can be a handful…" The young guard was silent for a moment as he continued his work. “No. I don’t think so. Not anymore." He finally said.

Once the last lock was in place Streamlight stepped back and stared at the bound mech for several minutes. The silence began to worry the ‘Con. “Are you glitched or do you do what you do to get attention?" The question wasn’t one Kronus hadn’t been asked before and for a long time he had never known how to answer. It had taken him several thousand vorns to finally come up with a somewhat adequate response. “I don’t find what I do strange. To me it’s…well, it’s as normal as walking and talking." Kronus stared back at the white and red mech. "“Normal”, in my world, is certainly not considered “glitched”."

Streamlight continued to watch him closely. To Kronus he seemed to be contemplating whether or not what he was saying was the truth. “I’m considered glitched because I’m different. I don’t act like everyone else therefore I don’t fit in with the rest of you. So, no, in my eyes I’m not glitched. In everyone else’s’ I’m a crazed lunatic who needs to be locked away." A small sigh followed his answer. It seemed to placate Streamlight as he offered a soft nod and a slight smile before he stepped back out of the cell and closed the door. The locks slid smoothly into position and the energon bars ignited. With all of the safety protocols met, Kronus was released from the restraints binding him to the far wall.

“For the record…I don’t think you’re glitched." Streamlight’s low voice floated into the cell. “I just think you’re misunderstood is all." Kronus said nothing; instead he moved to his recharge slab and lowered himself onto it. Yeah, killing this kid was gonna be easy. He smiled broadly before he initiated his recharge cycle.

This was it. Justice. Revenge. Both featured in this moment, this little triumph Wildfly had secured.

Maybe it wasn't complete justice or total revenge, but it was still something—a couple of fragments of the two. Considering the luck he'd been exposed to of late, which realistically amounted to zip, zero and zilch—what a surprise!—this moment possessed a significance Wildfly had not known for several vorns. Or, perhaps, even longer.

He wasn't sure how long it'd truly been. The first millennium of incarceration had sabotaged his ability to accurately judge time.

But he always knew when it was time to split this joint and flee this barren rock of a planet.

Wildfly smiled to himself, impressed with his quip. A winner, without a shadow of a doubt. He stashed that gem away in the vault of his memory banks. He could hardly wait to tell his fellow Monstercons that one during the next activity period in which he would catch up with them.

Spree returned with the ration, the moment having finally arrived. Victory at last.

Whirl took hold of the ration, that weird clawed actuator of his grasping it. Wildfly felt his optics involuntarily grow large. He waved the cube in front of the viewing panel, moving it from left to right and back again, sustaining its motion for a few astroseconds. Wildfly subdued his compulsion to reach out and try to swipe it, even though he could achieve no such thing.

Then it went all downhill from there.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do to get that spilled slop up." The Senior Guard paused for a moment just to be sure he had the ‘Con’s complete attention, “You’re gonna get down on your hands and knees, lower your head down really, really low… see, that way you’ll be in the perfect position to lap it up. Every last drop of it."

A powerful numbness travelled through Wildfly's frame as though an anaesthesia had been administered to him, freezing him to his spot. Whirl's words echoed in his audio modules, leaving a bitter ring to pursue them in their wake. Rigid and silent as a statue, he stood at the door.

“Now, where was I? Ahh, yes—"

The numbness abated to the point where mobility was granted again. Without a single syllable exiting his oral cavity, Wildfly turned and shuffled towards his cot, each laboured step bringing him closer. He needed to sit down, to comprehend the event that had just transpired.

"—Gest you get to work. I'm mighty thirsty."

He sat on the cot's edge. Gaze lowered to the cold steel floor, he said nothing and did nothing.

Motto:"I can totally prove that I'm not a zombie! Just lean over hear, and let me take a little nibble out of your brains."

Weapon: Double Barrelled Shell Launcher

Rung's Office

Armor Aid kept his optics looking down to the floor in front of Rung. He shook his head as his fingers tapped the armrests of the chair faster, his intakes becoming heavy and uneven. The psychoanalyst tried to convince him that he'd done everything he could to save his mentor, but the acting CMO still refused to believe it.

There was PLENTY I could have done to prevent his death..... if I hadn't hurt my shoulder and showed up early....... if I hadn't pushed him to confront Maximus...... If I hadn't stayed behind....... Slaggit I could have survived that blast! I'm built to take that kind of laser fire, Lancet wasn't! And he sure as slag could have fixed me up if I'd been hit that bad.....

As Rung tried to gain the paramedic's attention, Armor Aid tried to fake his way by looking around the small mech's face without looking directly into his optics.

"PTSD?", he mumbled, "Fine, whatever you say. I got PTSD, sure....."

Slaggit I need my cy-gar-8's! Just say what you need and let me out of here already!

Between having to recount the tragic death of Lancet, and the absense of chemicals to numb his emotional circuitry, Armor Aid was finding it hard to stay seated. He could barely listen to what Rung was saying as he tried hard to concentrate on stopping the tapping and twitching of his body. Then the orange mech asked about the paramedic "self-medicating", and his eyes widened.

Oh, slag no.

The paramedic shut his optics for a few astroseconds, taking several deep intakes as he tried to calm his nerves. Slowly, hesitantly, he looked Rung in the optics, while his hands took an even harder grip of the armrests in an effort to control his involuntary twitching.

"I don't have a problem.", he answered in a calm, but defensive tone, "I have a cy-gar-8 every once in a while to calm my nerves."

He looked away from Rung again, taking several uneven intakes. He felt like the psychoanalyst was probing him deeply with harsh, judging optics.

"Hey, Lancet used them and he didn't have a problem. And he was a fully trained physician who could actually save most of his patients!"

Astroseconds felt like mega-cycles to Armor Aid as he could still feel Rung's optics looking at him.

How dare you judge me.... I never wanted all this..... I didn't want Lancet dead..... I didn't want to know about corrupt guards and prisoners running things..... I sure as slag didn't want to kill my patients, even if most of them were Decepticon criminals.....

"Maybe some of us need a little help to deal with the energon on our hands.....", he mumbled.

Finally Armor Aid stood up.

"Maybe you can live with all the dead mechs on your hands!", he pointed to Rung accusingly, "But some of us need a little help just trying to get through the day!"

"I remember what life was like before the war. I was young then. I hadn't been online for very long yet. If I really strain my processors...I think I can remember the last dying gasps of the golden age of Cybertron. I can clearly remember the civil unrest. All of the Decepticon rallies...And the outbreak of the war. It's all still so vivid."

Umbra reclined, leaning on her cot as she awaited Scowl's next move patiently. Her thoughts flicked to the past, thoughts of better days. There had been a few good ones. Although, her time in Garrus-9 was almost as good as those days had been. It was because she had still had a home to go back to Umbra figured. Maybe...Maybe Garrus could serve as a new home for her.

"I remember Cybertron's fall especially. It was the last major event that had happened before I went into stasis for Primus knows how many vorns. Megatron sure was relentless. Always striving to reshape the world as he believed it should be. But now...there's no more world to reshape. No home to go back to anymore. When I woke up, I thought the war would be over, or at least, Cybertron would be restored."

Umbra paused for a moment considering Cybertron.

"I guess not. I wonder when acceptable losses will stop being acceptable."

Umbra examined the game board and started fiddling with one of the game pieces. Icepick had said something about Slog being an artist. Maybe she would ask him to make her a proper game piece one day. She looked forward to someday meeting the rest of the Monstercons. Umbra smiled as she heard Icepick's response to her last statement.

"Thanks Icepick. I'd like that. Time certainly does tend to crawl in here, but its not all bad."

Whirl peered into the cell and waited, and hoped, for some kind of rebuttal. Perhaps even some kind of thrashing, whimpering, angry mess that fell to the floor begging to know why. Why me?! Pft. Shame. The guy had no ball bearings.

“Wow. You know you came across, well, to me at least, as a definite kick-aft bot." *sip* “You kinda disappointed me there." *sip* Whirl removed the straw and turned to face the door fully, his lone amber optic catching sight of Wildfly as the Monstercon sat down on the edge of his cot. Such a huge shame. There must’ve been no fight left in him.

Whirl shook his head in frustration as he let out a heavy sigh. The senior guard then turned his attention to his subordinate by sending him a look over his shoulder. “Spree. Get your sorry aft over here." The other mech quickly pushed off the far wall and came to stand at attention next to the taller bot. “Yes, sir." He said with an obedient salute. Had he the ability Whirl would have flashed the idiot a wickedly devious grin. As it was he’d just have to settle for surprising the mech.

“Why don’t you get in there and shake our friend up a bit. He looks a bit…" He paused for a moment as he looked back in at Wildfly. "…downtrodden. I don’t want anyone to say I was responsible for the decline in the mental wellbeing of any bot on my watch."

To say the low ranking guard was surprised was an understatement. Spree’s jaw dropped open wide enough to nearly hit the floor. “Wh…what?" The question only seemed to fuel Whirl further. The copter-bot whipped around and caught Spree’s neck between two tightly clasped pincers. “Ask me again! I really wish you would!"

Spree caught on quickly as he nodded in understanding. Once he became compliant Whirl released him only to loom over him. “This cycle!" Whirl yelled. Spree scrambled to the door and took a quick look inside. Wildfly still hadn’t moved. Good. Maybe he had a chance. With shaky hands Spree entered the security code and waited as the locks released.

When the door finally opened Spree stood before the open portal with Whirl standing behind him, weapons drawn and already to take of the Monstercon’s head should he make any sudden moves. “Go say hi, Spree." Whirl sent the guard into the cell with a hard shove of his foot.

Icepick had proceeded to get a little more information from the femme than he had bargained for. Not crucial information, but information that wasn't always shared around this place nonetheless. He wasn't sure what he'd do with it--if anything at all. It just provided some additional perspective.

"So you weren't a warry, eh?" Icepick said, playfully referring to the generation of mechs who had come to be after the start of the Great War. The "warborn", in the more popular vernacular. "I guess that's a good thing. No, it is a good thing. Gives you a perspective that not everyone else has. That makes you older than the warden too, at least by some measure. Quite a few of us here are, though. Guess they wanted someone younger to take the reins of this place this time around."

Icepick sat back and reflected on one of the femme's questions: when would the acceptable loss ratio stop being so? It was a question that he had asked himself before. His usual answer to himself was that there obviously was no such limit. The war had gone on for this long hadn't it? At this point, only a complete exhaustion of resources or total extinction seemed likely to ultimately win this perpetual war. And one would likely complement the other.

But those weren't the only scenarios. One side could, of course, actually win the thing. How or when would be anyone's guess. And there was always the possibility--however remote--that, yes, there was a loss ratio out there somewhere that enough Cybertronians would deem to be enough and find a way to overpower those who sought to continue to war.

Icepick had little faith in their ability to do so and even less desire to assist. Megatron needed to win. Icepick knew that deep down in his spark. It was just taking a frustratingly long time to do it. To the point that time and isolation had dulled over the edges of what had once been one of the Decepticon cause's fiercest recruiters back in the old days.

Such was life.

"Sounds like Scowl's giving you a run for your shanix, so to speak. He always was pretty good at Matrix."

"Pah! Older than Max? Not in vorns fully functional," Umbra chuckled to Icepick.

Still her age had not really occurred to her. How odd to be old. It seemed like just a few solar cycles ago when it all had begun. Dear Primus, she was old. The reconnaissance agent shook her head in bewilderment. Everything had seemed so surreal ever since she had woken up from stasis. To be warborn...to never have known peace. Perhaps that is a blessing. The warborn will never know what they have missed. Maybe a bad thing too, as Icepick suggested.

If all they know is war, how can there be peace? Umbra let out a whoosh of air from her intakes in a sigh. She wasn't even sure that she wanted peace anymore, so distant a dream it seemed to be now. Umbra just wanted a home where there could be a norm again. A routine. Something to expect. A circuit slab to rest her cranium on every night. Something like that.

Umbra found it preferable to wandering around the cosmos, leaping from world to world, ship to ship, in utter chaos and disarray, fighting a pointless war without end. Garrus...was different. Outside of the war. It was the first time that she had known inner peace in her remembrance.

Umbra smiled.

"Hey, I'm just out of practice! You try being in stasis for a million plus years, see how you fare!" Umbra chuckled as she looked at the Matrix board again, "I have a feeling I might lose more than a few chits playing against you two."

It was the next on the list of works to read that Stingray had put together. And it turned out to be a lot more enlightening than the title had suggested.

Stingray was a little wary of anything that carried religious undertones, for she could only interpret them as voluntary delusions of those who didn't have the strength to stand up for themselves. But this particular essay had nothing in that regard.

Rather more, it described very simply how the irrational pursuit of wealth, pomp and power would inevitably lead to corruption and conflict and a high percentage of society plummeting to povetry, anarchy and rebellion, and suggested what should be done to prevent it. Mostly, moderation of state expenditures, a purposeful restructuring of Cybertronian society for scientific ventures and explorations to space, to provide as much of the populace an occupation as possible. Stingray read it with fascination, many of the thoughts laid out striking a similar chord to her own.

She had faced the exact same problems before the war as the author, Dominus Ambus described in his work. Wanting, hopelessness, every cycle a painful struggle just to stay functioning. The only solution she had seen then, had been to cry her anger at the skies, lose herself in pointless violence, to burn down all she had hated, to take what she couldn't have had. That's why she had joined the Decepticons in the first place. They had been the embodiment of that philosophy.

But as she read, it all cleared up to her. There were other ways of progress, that did not involve the horror of war, cruel obsession with power and so many vorns of agony and loss.Stingray stopped reading and looked up, staring emptily at the wall. She remembered a short period of her service when she had been assigned as a guard to a prison camp. On a megacycle basis, she had seen and heard the captives submitted to ghastly tortures. Carving out optics. Sawing off limbs. Crushing joints underfoot. Dissected while still functioning. And not for the purpose of drawing hidden access codes, officer designations, or secret base locations from them but for sport. To provide rotten entertainment to a ruthless batch of guards.

Then, she had handled it with apathy, if a little discomforted, and had just closed the door behind her to shut it out. And why? Because she had believed in the righteousness of all those atrocities. That the poor sparks who had had to suffer, had deserved to.

Now, as the scenes flashed up before her optics so vividly like nothing ever before, she could feel fear, shock and disbelief cut into her like super-heated energon-blade thrust right through the spark.

How could she have been so callous?

She shivered so intensely her joint servos gave low, whining sounds.

It could all have been avoided... could it...?

Sharp, successive chimes pulled her back to the reality of the present. At first she thought it was a defensive measure of her imagination, trying to wake her from reliving her her memories too intensely. But soon she realized it was the opening mechanism of the door to her cell clearing an access card for entrance.

Stingray quickly composed herself.

The electromagnetic lock that kept the sturdy metal slab in place sizzled as the generated magnetic field dissipated, and the door creaked open.

A mech in the livery-marks of the prison guard entered. In one hand, he held a wrist-cuff. The mag-lock holster on his waist was open, allowing free access to his sidearm, should he need it.

"Come," he said flatly. "The Warden wants to see you."

Stingray merely nodded in response, warily. She slowly put the datapad down and got up, holding out her manual actuators. The cuffs closed around her wrists with a buzz. The guard checked if they held properly, then ushered Stingray outside.

Two other guards waited there. One of them didn't have as many shoulder stripes as the other two and Stingray recognized him as the mech on stationary sentry duty for her cell and the opposite one. The other appeared to be an extra escort in support of the one that had taken her out. None of them said anything, they communicated with each other by means of curt nods and hand gestures. Stingray was grateful for that. Right now, the last thing she needed was the kind of prison staff that liked to jab barbs at inmates or pull humiliating pranks on them. In stark contrast to the prison camp that had just been dredged up from her memory, there were very few of the abusive kind of guards here at Garrus. But they did exist.

She was lead away, through a long corridor into the central areas of the prison facility, one guard in front of her and the other behind to ensure she didn't get lost or try anything she shouldn't. A damp silence hang in the air, save for the clanks of her and the two guards' steps, and the occasional whistle and bawdy comment on her figure from inmates whose cells she passed by. She didn't particularly care about the latter. She had had time to get used to it at Decepticon posts.

After making their way through a zig-zag of intersections and up two levels by elevator, they finally arrived at a door Stingray wouldn't have guessed hid the Warden's office. It was the same roughly plated, rust-spotted metal like all the cell doors.

It slid open, allowing them entry. The back guard took up position outside.

The imposing figure of Fortress Maximus was apparently busy, working by a massive computer terminal. For a second, Stingray was halted in her step by the sheer size of the Warden's accommodations, the three levels of which housed barely less equipment than a fully functional research lab.

And a beautiful, majestic sight of a moon through an immense plas-glass viewport. Apart from the size of the place, that was what caught her attention.

"Inmate GB-563, Stingray, as per your instructions, sir," the guard in front announced and nudged the femme forward.

Maximus did not even look away from the various series of holoscreens that currently had his attention when the arrival of the inmate he had summoned was announced. He was just finishing signing off on a series of shift logs that his guards in A-block had filed before sending them off to archives.

In the grist of finishing up what last of the work he needed to take care of before getting some quality recharge time, he remembered what he had summoned the inmate for. The one in question, GB-563, had been one of the better behaved ones in the facility since her original admission. He pulled up the summons and refreshed himself on the reasoning and quickly remembered. He turned to face both the guards, a contented smile on his face.

"Thanks, Tinspeed. Cindertrack," Maximus said, acknowledging the guards personally before looking to the inmate in question. "I was reading some of your requests, Stingray. I've got to admit, I'm a little impressed. The usual requests I see are what you would expect from an inmate: more fuel rations, longer rec time, full pardons. The usual. And that's just the coherent requests. Yours have been surprisingly...unorthodox. Optional communal reflection periods. Expansion of the library. Increased opportunities for prisoners to complete time-served in work positions within the facility. Pretty good ideas, and supported with evidence. I like that."

Maximus leaned back in his large chair a little, thinking about what he would say next and how exactly he would phrase it.

"The sad fact is that this is a war. And with resources stretched as they are, I don't see much of anything being expanded, except for perhaps our cell-space. But I have to admit that I was intrigued by your ideas of inmate service, which prompted me to look at your record a little more closely. It's pretty, well, exemplary. I have no shame in admitting that right off. I'd scarcely even heard your name mentioned before now."

Maximus finally got up from his seat, his towering form approaching both the inmate and the guard escorts.

"Our library may not be the biggest in the history of Cybertronian use, but it works. Mainly for our civilian population here, but nevertheless. I know that Snippet wouldn't object to my sending him a little assistance. This would be during your rec time, if it's going to happen. At least for starters, and we'll see how you do with a little more free access to the prison. From there, who knows? Snippet might request your time a little more frequently and I might oblige him, if your behaviors warrant it."

Shoulder-plates slumped forward as if an immense weight bore them down and wearing an aspect of defeat, Wildfly portrayed the antithesis of his usually energetic and haughty character. Gaze still aimed at the floor, he responded neither physically nor verbally as Whirl insulted him and, in plain view, enjoyed the energon ration at his own leisure. Wildfly looked as though he could barely stand, let alone retaliate with any measure of ferocity.

Or that was how he wanted to appear in front of those idiots, those wastes of spare parts, those walking corpses who would soon become real corpses. Judging by their expressions, Wildfly was putting on an award winning performance.

Splendid. Maintain discipline now, go all Terrorcon on them later. A brilliant strategy.

Despite the thought nearly coaxing a smile out of him, thus ruining this charade, a fury more potent than the presence of a thousand suns blazed within him. One way or the other, he would annihilate Whirl. One way or the other, he would obliterate Spree. And nothing—nothing—would stop him from slaughtering those two.

Wildfly heard the guards speak, their tones tense and raised which he found strange. Because images of their deaths by his actuator clogged his core processor, forbidding his attention to focus on them, he didn't catch their entire conversation—but he did hear the most significant part. Exhibiting the appearance of a prisoner destroyed by his sentence and the system, Wildfly remained seated on the edge of his cot.

Spree punched in the security code. The locks disengaged. The door swung open. He entered the cell.

The. Fool. Actually. Entered. Wildfly's. Cell.

Wildfly was motionless. Astonishment didn't even register as he saw Spree standing in his cell, Whirl not far behind in support. Considering the harassment he'd been subjected to, he had half expected as much.

He supposed they more than half expected him to charge at them like a starving Mecannibal, but he hadn't planned it like that. Though that did sound alluring to the rage boiling inside him.

When Spree came close enough, into a range where his demise was inevitable, they would discover just how “listless” and “pathetic” Wildfly really was.

"I was reading some of your requests, Stingray. I've got to admit, I'm a little impressed. The usual requests I see are what you would expect from an inmate: more fuel rations, longer rec time, full pardons. The usual. And that's just the coherent requests. Yours have been surprisingly...unorthodox. Optional communal reflection periods. Expansion of the library. Increased opportunities for prisoners to complete time-served in work positions within the facility. Pretty good ideas, and supported with evidence. I like that."

Stingray listened silently. If she wanted to be frank with herself, she didn’t know what to expect from the Warden’s summons. Even if she had expected anything, acknowledgement would have been the last thing.

The requests Fortress Maximus was talking about were little more than notes jotted down onto a public data terminal Stingray used when spending time in the archives chamber. A few notions inspired by the works she had read or idle scribblings on why she found them useful. Or attempting to find an excuse to get closer to materiel. She had absolutely no inkling it would interest the Warden himself so much.

"Thank you, sir," she said simply. "I was... I was just trying to learn from the works of Alpha Trion, Dominus Ambus, Boltax and a few others. The principles about integration and communal employment in The Nature Of Balance seemed...," she paused to find the right word, "...incentive."

That was true. Stingray had read a lot and it had shaped her outlook on many things. And there was that drive to know even more. She couldn’t quite put it into words, but understanding gave her a measure of certainty. Certainty she had seldom experienced before.

Maximus got up from his seat. He was one immense Transformer. Stingray had never seen another one his size this close up.

""Our library may not be the biggest in the history of Cybertronian use, but it works. Mainly for our civilian population here, but nevertheless. I know that Snippet wouldn't object to a little assistance. This would be during your rec time, if it's going to happen. At least for starters, and we'll see how you do with a little more free access to the prison. From there, who knows? Snippet might request your time a little more frequently and I might oblige him, if your behaviors warrant it." "

Stingray knew Snippet, if fleetingly. He used to bring her the works from the archives she had been granted access to. He came off as a knowledgable mech, if a little stiff. He always knew where to find something on a given topic.

At the mention of free access, survival instincts drilled into her long ago flickered back from her memory. A chance to slip through security and escape. A chance to take out high-profile personnel. A chance to transmit intelligence packages. Her pump rate spiked for a few short astroseconds.

Then she quashed all such thoughts. Seeing where following the Decepticon conduct had ended her up, she was not about to risk her neck because of a sudden burst of reckless bravado. Maybe trying for a solution without conflict would get her farther.

"Thank you sir. I’d be glad to lend your librarian an actuator." It was very strange, conversing with an Autobot almost casually, especially one of such high status but Stingray decided she’d see what came out of it. "What will be my duties?"

All of the fidgeting, the incessant finger tapping on the armrests of the chair, the heavy, uneven intakes, did not go unnoticed by the psychiatrist. Everything was noted, if not in writing then it was recorded and stored within Rung’s own processor for later examination.

Armor Aid was still hurting. He hadn’t made it past the mourning stage of his loss. In order for him to move on to the following stages he was going to have to accept that he was not responsible for the death of Lancet.

Rung sat patiently, quietly, legs crossed hands gently folded and set lightly on his knee as he watched the medic go through the motions of not wanting to face the truth. Armor Aid had found a surrogate to acceptance of his loss…an addiction. The cygar – 8’s were his crutch, and another way to hold onto Lancet for just a little longer. In hindsight, they were just as much the problem as his mentor’s death.

It was the sudden outburst that finally got Rung to move from his position. The accusation that he was somehow unable to cope with the loss of other mechs was difficult to fathom, however, the psychiatrist recovered and replaced his surprised expression with one of understanding. "Armor Aid, I know you don’t mean any of that."

Rung placed both elbows on his knees and leaned down so he could catch the doctor’s optics with his own. “Aid, you do have a problem. You’re using the cygar – 8s as a crutch. As a way to hold on to Lancet for just a little longer and as a result you’ve become dependent on them, not only as a way to keep your thoughts straight, but as a way to keep your mentor close to you."

A soft sigh escaped Rung as he looked at his newest patient. “I want to help you move on to the next stage. You’re stuck, Aid, you’re stuck in the mourning stage and you have to move on to the acceptance stage of your loss." Rung’s lips curled up into a small smile as he reached out slowly and placed his hand lightly on Armor Aid’s knee. “Let me help you. Let me help you move on. Let me help you regain control of your life so you can beat this addiction. So you can reclaim your existence and prove to yourself that you’re every bit as good as Lancet. Let me help you see that your mentor made the right decision in choosing you as his successor."

Rung removed his hand from his patient’s knee and leaned back in his chair. He watched the mech for a moment before he pressed a bit further. “Let me ask you something. If you were not here or if you had never met Lancet, do you think the attack on him would have still happened?" He asked the question to see how Armor Aid felt about his own existence. Armor Aid needed to understand that even if he was not around there was still a chance that Lancet would have made the attempt to see Fortress Maximus and he would have still been attacked and killed. If Rung could get his patient to see that no matter what he did or didn’t do the outcome would still have been the same, then maybe Armor Aid would accept Lancet’s death for what it was…a tragic undertaking made possible by a few corrupt individuals.

Southern Wing – Level 4 – Cell Block C

There had been silence between the two mechs for quite some time. It suited Kronus fine. He was used to the quiet. Of course it was a bit strange for the young guard to be so tightlipped. With a mental sigh Kronus decided to keep his “friendship” up by striking up a nice conversation. “Shanix for your thoughts."

“Huh?" The light sound of Streamlight’s youthful voice floated into the thief’s cell and settled into his audios. “I said a shanix for your thoughts. You’re usually a bit more…well, you know, talkative." Kronus shifted onto his side as he focused on the door. “Something wrong?"

There wasn’t an answer; instead the only sound that drifted into the cell was a soft sigh. Curiosity piqued, Kronus slowly sat up on his cot and cocked his head to one side. He waited a moment more but still no vocal response. The lithe mech stood from his resting place and made his way to the cell door. He lifted up on the balls of his feet and cast his gaze around the area. “I get it. It’s about me, isn’t it? You really do think I’m glitched."

“No. That’s not it." The voice wasn’t coming from the desk instead it was off to the side and out of view from the Decepticon. Kronus strained his neck in an attempt to see the young guard, but when the tension on the cables became too intense he gave up and lowered back down onto his heels. “Okay, so what is it? Can’t help you if you don’t let me in ya know."

Another sigh, this one heavier than the previous one. “It’s Rung." The guard said as he finally stepped into view. Kronus raised an optic ridge as he took in Streamlight’s worried expression. “What about him? Is this because he wants to meet with you?" Kronus’ voice was low but still filed with faux concern.

Streamlight shrugged and slowly made his way to the desk. He plopped down in the chair and placed his elbows on the surface. With a snort Streamlight rested his chin in his hands. “He thinks we’re becoming too close. But it’s not like I’m leaking codes or anything like that." There was a light chuckle from behind the cell door. “Heh. You don’t happen to know any do you?" Streamlight’s head shot up as he looked into the crimson pinpricks shining out through the door’s window. “Of course not! I’m just a guard!"

Another chuckle, this one a bit louder and longer. “Don’t get your lugnuts in a twist. I was just foolin’ around." Kronus said before he let out a heavy sigh. “Look, kid, Rung’s okay…well, he’s okay for a spindly little cretin, but he’s okay. Just go in there and let him know how you feel. That’s what he’s there for…or what they pay him for…or whatever." A few shuffling steps and Kronus was back on his cot. Streamlight grumbled something quietly before the two mechs grew silent once more. “Kronus?" The young mech questioned after some time.

The thief lifted his head slightly and set his optics on the bright ice blue color of Streamlight’s optics piercing the dark of his cell. “Yeah?" A moment of silence filled the room as the ‘Con watched the young guard’s optics offline. “You don’t think I’m glitched, do you?"

Kronus stared for a moment, a hidden, toothy grin plastered on his face beneath his face restraint before he laid his head back down. “Nah. You’re not glitched. You’re just trusting. But that’s a good thing." For me. Kronus’ smile broadened.

There was silence between the inmate and the sentry after Kronus’ comment. He was “trusting”. Streamlight thought about it and realized that perhaps the Decepticon was the only one with the ballbearings to tell him exactly what he thought. Of course he never really took the opportunity to get to know many of the other guards, save Steelhand; chances were that had he he’d be sure to get plenty of input.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Streamlight began to get a few things at his station in order. He was going to need to leave soon since his appointment with the psychoanalyst was fast approaching. But first he would need a stop off in the barracks for a quick refuel.

It was the movement and the quiet noises that caught Kronus’ attention. The thief raised his head off his cot and looked up to the little window adorning his door. “Something wrong out there?" He questioned. He wasn’t sure if the young guard had gotten orders or if he was just fidgeting. “Oh, I’m just getting a couple things in order. I need to get going pretty soon." Streamlight answered lowly.

“Leave? That session gonna start so soon?" The thief was curious, not to know when his watchdog would be leaving but who would be replacing him. There were few other staff members who he tolerated…strike that, there was only staff member he tolerated and the mech outside the door was that mech. “Who’s comin’ down to take over?"

Streamlight looked up from his station toward the door and let out a low sigh. He hated doing it but the only other guard who was trained in handling Kronus, if only barely, was Spree. The only problem with such an arrangement…if Spree needed to enter the inmate’s cell he’d never get past the security protocols. Very few staff members possessed the codes; Spree was not one of them. 'Precautions' was the reasoning, or so that was what Streamlight had been told. Dangerous inmates, if an emergency within the facility occurred, would go down in the crossfire. “I have to see Rung in a little over a joor." Streamlight mentioned, but he held off on answering Kronus’ last query; at least for another moment.

At the young guard’s silence Kronus took a guess, although he already knew the answer. “Spree, huh?" He placed both arms behind his head and crossed his ankles. “Mech’s gonna find himself on the wrong side of an inmate’s door one of these days. I only wish I can be there when it does happen." Kronus let out a low, cruel chuckle. “Slag, I hope it’s my cell he winds up in. He won’t be making out in one piece."

“Okay, knock it off. The guy’s an aft but he doesn’t deserve to be torn apart." Kronus snorted loudly in response. “Who said I’d tear him apart?" Streamlight simply stared at the ‘Con’s door silently.

Southern Wing – Cell Block M

Arm waving uncontrollably, Spree stumbled into Wildfly’s cell. He steadied himself before he fell to his hands and knees before the Decepticon. Once stable on his own two feet Spree took a worried glance over his shoulder to Whirl who was poised just inside the door, his guns drawn and aimed directly at the prisoner. “Go on. Give the mech a shake." Whirl ordered. Spree, for the most part simply stared at the senior guard with a dumbstruck look plastered on his face. “Bu…but…"

Whirl let out a tired sigh before he moved further into the cell and grabbed Spree by the back of the neck and leaned down to speak into his audio. “Not such a brave mech when the barriers are down, are ya." It wasn’t a question, and it certainly wasn’t meant to be.

Whirl’s grip loosened slightly, however, when the PA system came to life with the voice of the young mech stuck in the “basement” came over the airwaves. "Spree. You’re requested on Level 4 of the Southern Wing." The PA cut out as quickly as it had been opened and the two guards were left standing in the middle of the Monstercon’s cell. “Looks like you get to proto-sit Kronus for a while." Whirl taunted.

Spree flinched slightly when he felt the pincer tighten around the back of his neck once more.

Whirl gripped the mech’s neck and roughly dragged him from the enclosure locking the door behind him. He tossed the other guard across the hall and Spree slammed hard into a door. Before he was able to gather his bearings and pull away, Whirl was on top of him. “Word of advice…if you’re gonna threaten a ‘Con then you better be prepared to follow through with them." The senior guard backed off slightly and glared down hard into the other ‘Bot’s optics. “Get outta my sight you fraggin’ grease stain!" Spree was too surprised by the recent events to even open his mouth; instead he ducked out of Whirl’s glare and took off.

The coptor-bot watched as the frightened mech ran off in the direction of the lifts and disappeared from sight. He let out an evil chuckle as he turned back to look through the door’s tiny window. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Pretty sure he’s on the top of your list." Tap. Tap. Tap. “The time comes…I’ll hold him down for ya."____________________________________________

Another boring day at the surveillance station. As if anything was ever going to happen here aside occasional brawl between prisoners. Or the once in an orn Decepticon scout ship popping on the far fringe of the star system only to be driven off by the Autobot fleet stationed in the Elba System. Speaking of prison brawls, there hadn't been a single one since that encounter between that odd little psycho with restraint harness and that gangbanger 'con with a name that he really didn't live up to. Unless of course, this little altercation between Spree, Whirl and this Decepticon whose name he just couldn't remember... Brainfly? Wildbird? Something like that - would turn into one.

Yeah, Vantage saw it all. If Whirl or the others thought their little games went unnoticed, they were wrong. The prison wards were flooded with surveillance equipment. You never knew when a prisoner would let something important to slip by. Too bad those who actually held information worth of Vantage's time hardly ever let anything slip. So yeah. Whirl and Spree, they were so busted. Or would have been if Vantage had been an Autobot of unwavering morals. See, as far as he was concerned, these Decepticon murderers deserved all the abuse they were subjected to. He would gladly follow the show and conveniently fail to inform Fortress Maximus of these occurrences within the prison wards.

Though Vantage suspected that the warden knew what was happening in his facility. The big guy had suffered enough in the hands of the Decepticons to let something like this slip by on every occasion it took place and then some. Of course, that was just wild speculation Vantage couldn't afford to bring under scrutiny. Maximus could very well share Optimus Prime's unwavering ideals and Vantage was not about to gamble on those odds. To even think of losing this job because of an ill placed freudian slip sent shivers across his spinal strut. Slag no he was going to get demoted to waste processing just because he thought big Max might not be as valorous as most people were led to believe.

Yeah, better to just let Whirl work his magic in peace. At least he was bound to get some entertainment out of this job because of nutcases like Whirl.

And this was the point when his boring day took a turn for worse. Vantage just didn't know it yet. The surveillance terminal he was manning went from nothing at all to alert mode. Three unidentified and unscheduled ships had entered the reach of their surveillance equipment. A Decepticon scouting party - it had been months since the last one. Finally something worth of reporting over.

>>"Surveillance engineer Vantage to Fortress Maximus. We have three unidentified vessels in the radar range. They are not responding to our communications. Their behavior pattern suggests we are dealing with a Decepticon scouting party. Waiting for further orders."<<____________________________________________